Referencing his mother’s passing in 1992, Nathaniel Mary Quinn’s “aim as an artist [was] to make a work that [was] so palpable and so dynamic and so incredibly felt that [his] Mom could literally walk off the surface of the canvas and back to life.”[1] The result was Untitled (Portrait of the Artist’s Mother) from 2000, which was exhibited at his high school “Senior Art Exhibition.” Now housed in a private collection, the portrait offers a rare glimpse into Quinn’s early artistic process while communicating themes of loss, longing, dignity, purpose, parenthood, rebirth, and reciprocity.

Today, Quinn’s composite portraits of friends and relatives defy traditional portrait conventions. Employing a lone exquisite corpse technique, chance encounters of distorted and realistic body parts combined with incongruous brushstrokes create subjects that border on the unfamiliar, laying bare the body as an archive of undeveloped images. The embracing of chance, intuition, and the incorporation of familial memories highlight the spontaneous nature of his work. In their own state of becoming, the portraits express Quinn’s vulnerability and participatory role, and speak closer to the process of artmaking than the finished works themselves. Their dichotomous nature—being completed works that never quite seem finished—offer a surreal experience that remains firmly grounded in reality.

This reality is no less present in his mother’s portrait. In the black space of the foreground, she stands commandingly in swagger pose, reminiscent of Grand Manner portraiture. Bathed in a white light and taking up nearly the entire frame, her protruding stomach, rigid posture, and “chin-up” mentality, add to her regal and confident demeanor. The folds of her fuchsia gown add visual weight and further cast her apart from her gloomy environment, where a depressing, blue sky looms over inward-leaning grey towers to create a sense of claustrophobia. 

Born in 1977, Quinn grew up in poverty on the South Side of Chicago in the now demolished, and presumably depicted, Robert Taylor Homes. Built with good intentions in 1962 as a waystation to foster social mobility, federal and municipal policies, soon hijacked by private interests, allowed the buildings to fall into disrepair. Social disorder followed as living standards worsened throughout the 1980s and 90s; crime, gangs, and drugs became the norm. The Home’s notoriety, “considered the worst slum area in the United States” according to the Chicago Housing Authority in 1998, would unfairly extend to its inhabitants, who were nearly all Black. Exacerbating matters, the practice of segregated development created not only a “great wall of exclusion” but a “psychological barrier,” which strengthened negative stereotypes that would plague a whole community, spawning myths that remain all too prevalent today.[2]

The Artist’s Mother is at once a denouncement of such myths and an affirmation of humanity, embodying concepts of home and community, which often fail to extend to public housing.[3] Here, Quinn rightly expresses the body as “an amalgam of numerous experiences… built from a history of joy, sadness, ups, and downs.”[4] Her grey countenance, which mimics the towers in the background, surrenders to brown hues and full pink lips. While brown serves the purpose of skin tone, it also highlights certain elements within the composition: a fragmented eye, a delineated hand, and narrow legs. Eyes, one sensitive, the other ostensibly weary, can convey one’s memories and inner emotions; as windows to the soul, they maintain the capacity to tell narratives words alone cannot. Hands can connote work, responsibility, determination, caretaking, or reference a future act of creation. The hand’s prominent singularity, a possible reference to his mother’s partial disability due to multiple strokes, performs as an accessory to motherly greatness.

From the dreary, she emerges as a complex figure whose pillar-like stature confronts historic misconceptions, which the vanishing point behind her head assists in perpetuating. Through her confrontational gaze, she assertively erases and inverses this vanishing point, a visual metaphor for single-mindedness, or more aptly, tunnel vision. In doing so, she undermines once-assured gazes; she is not what she appears. Her defiant and towering presence, which renders the picture plane abstract, commands an act of submission, a beholder’s acknowledgment of their shrunken state and similitude with the receding towers in the background.  

Quinn’s baroque sensibility and compositional framing allow for such a submission to take place. While the pyramidal composition lends his mother stability, Quinn’s foreshortening of her right foot, presenting a passage between two worlds, places this stability in question only to reaffirm it. The foot’s formal insignificance, which gives the misleading impression of a safe and comfortable bird’s eye view, demonstrates its symbolic strength by withstanding a crushing environment, and possibly, the weight of a child. No matter the picture’s placement, whether hanging on a wall or sitting on the floor, one is unable to “look down” upon this woman; the foot’s deceptiveness, at once, reveals our culpable gaze and champions her irreducible presence.[5]

Bearing a symbolic weight similar to her meager right foot, the bright blue sole of her left sandal aids in our transcending of such limiting views while referencing his mother’s deceased, yet magisterial state. In formal terms, this blue provides visual relief from a black background and corresponds with the sky above, adding a lightness to her imposing stature. The connection evokes the Christian belief of death as gain and a new life in the beyond. Between feet, a delicate balance is struck, contributing to her dichotomous nature. While one appears to hover, the other is firmly grounded; their joining marks her eternal and palpable presence—two feet, two realms. In her fragmented state, she stands as a celestial being whose given corporeal presence extends from the felt absence of Quinn’s living memory. The balancing of these juxtapositions suggests not only a determined mother ceding to succumb to a “desperate” atmosphere, but a watchful, awe-inspiring maternal icon whose transcending of such settings bestows upon beholders gifts of resilience and comfort.

These gifts, conveyed through a calming smoothness that overtakes the harsh geometrics of her setting and fragmented make-up, also aid in capturing the conflicting nature of parenthood. The rigidity and stiffness of her posture, meant to convey a sense of fear, awe, and respect, are accompanied by soft outlines, bouncing strands of hair, pillowy draped folds, and a weightless flowing gown. These contrasts, which add a sense of playfulness to an otherwise unfriendly set of circumstances, are the convincing measures of a parent’s undeniable love, and a child’s acknowledgment of their parent’s role as disciplinarian, guide, and protector.

Seemingly a memorial portrait of his late mother, in superseding her referent, the painting communicates much more than an act of remembrance. The essence of the work, of his mother, hides in plain sight by way of the painted stroke. As gestures of intimacy and longing, they are the literal transformation of life into matter. Here, in this mood-inherent medium, his mother is both immanent and transcendent, and challenges further dichotomies of subject/object, active/passive, and animate/inanimate to lend her an irrefutable existence with equal participatory powers. The depicted hereafter paradoxically presents the here and now.

“At Wabash,” Quinn “learned… to be a human being… to transcend social conditioning… to be free,” an awakening he extends to his mother.[6] Expanding upon this notion, commonly said is that having children is akin to having your heart outside your body. This feeling is mutual for Quinn, hence the adoption of his mother’s name, which he signs on the back of every canvas as co-creator, accompanied by three hearts. In this sense, the picture presents a contradiction, who has given birth to whom? Regardless of her pregnant status, or if her belly perhaps houses an unborn Quinn, there is, nonetheless, an acknowledgment that he would not be where he is today if not for his mother’s sacrifices. As a bodily extension of Quinn’s memory, the portrait communicates a reciprocal act of creation in painterly form, a gracious and resurrectionary gesture of a beloved lost soul, and for Quinn, the beginning of a new life filled with passionate pursuits.

[1] Richard Paige, “When Sunday Comes,” Wabash Magazine (Winter 2017): 28.  https://issuu.com/wabash_college/docs/wm_winter_2017

[2] Nicholas Degan Bloom, Fritz Umbach, and Lawrence J. Vale. Public Housing Myths: Perception, Reality, and Social Policy (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2015), 34, 50.

[3] Quinn’s mother “was literally around the building, helping people, feeding gangbangers and the drug users when they didn’t have anything to eat, letting guys help her with the groceries and paying them to help out.” “Mary: The Making of Nathaniel Mary Quinn.” Hindman Auctions, September 28, 2022. https://hindmanauctions.com/items/10615750-untitled-portrait-of-the-artist-s-mother#_edn1.; Bloom, Umbach, and Vale. Public Housing Myths, 57-59; Audrey Petty, High Rise Stories: Voices from Chicago Public Housing (San Francisco, CA: McSweeney’s, 2013), 17-18.

[4] Nathaniel Mary Quinn, Wabash Magazine (Winter 2017): 2.

[5] This analogy extends from my own experience with his mother while working as an intern at Hindman Auctions in Chicago and witnessing both the work’s installation and de-installation. Several times a day I walked past her hanging in the gallery. Each time, her silent gestures made subtle commands upon my body, a radiating stillness that beckoned me as if wishing to disclose a secret. Not once did I refuse to acknowledge her, whether through a quick glance or, when time permitted, through a more formal conversation, where, seemingly of my own volition, I walked respectably as I would toward any elder past the other pictures in the gallery—the massive Paul Jenkins on view never stood a chance. When standing before her, I felt inferior, but never unwanted. Each encounter was a boost in self-esteem. I looked forward to our conversations and contemplated them afterward. This would all last until her departure, where I witnessed her on the floor propped against the wall surrounded by shipping supplies. When I approached her saddened to say goodbye, even though I stood above her, my smallness remained intact. Her awesome presence denied her objecthood and demanded my humility, which I felt obliged in part for what she had given me. My sadness came in knowing that she had more to say and that I would never see her again in the flesh.

[6] Paige, “When Sunday Comes,” 28.

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It’s been nearly ten years since Bryan Fuller’s TV show Hannibal (2013-2015) debuted. Since then, it has garnered a cult viewership and a devoted online fanbase, often referred to as “fannibals.” However, to their (and my) chagrin, the show was preemptively cancelled after Season 3. As a late-comer to Hannibal (in that I’ve only just started watching it), the past several weeks of my life have been consumed by the drama’s cinematographic beauty, eloquent writing, and, of course, its artistic depiction of cannibalism. Furthermore, as an aspiring early modernist, I’ve also been doing my fair share of comparing Hannibal with the early modern English texts I study. One of these, William Shakespeare’s 1594 play Titus Andronicus, bears particularly strong similarities to the show.

Despite the approximately 400-year gap between them, Hannibal resonates strongly with Titus. In tracing their thematic entanglement, I hope to demonstrate how Shakespeare’s gory revenge tragedy illuminates one of the more veiled elements of Fuller’s show, namely Dr. Lecter’s figurative role as a pre-Oedipal horror: the cannibalizing mother.

Before we begin, you must all be warned. Nothing here is vegetarian. Bon appetit.[i]

In Hannibal, as in many of Shakespeare’s plays, mothers seem to get left out of the picture. Take the character Abigail Hobbs, for instance, whose main story arc elapses during Season 1. The show depicts Abigail’s mother as having little to no consequence on the drama, whereas Garrett Jacob Hobbs, Abigail’s father, is spotlighted as the first serial killer that Will Graham is called on to apprehend. Likewise, Will’s character engages in a similar kind of maternal erasure, claiming that he “never knew” his mother but that his father single-handedly molded him into a drifter:

HANNIBAL
Tell me about your mother.

WILL GRAHAM
That’s some lazy psychiatry, Dr. Lecter. Low hanging fruit.

HANNIBAL
I suspect that fruit is on a high branch, very difficult to reach.

WILL GRAHAM
So’s my mother. I never knew her.

…

HANNIBAL
Did your family have money, Will?

WILL GRAHAM
We were poor. I followed my father from the boat yards in Biloxi and Greenville to lake boats on Erie.[ii]

If Hannibal’s mothers are “very difficult to reach,” to quote Dr. Lecter, then the show’s fathers seem to be the “low-hanging fruit” of Will’s metaphor. Abigail’s father is not only sensationalized as a cannibal-murderer, thus rendering his wife less important by comparison, but his hereditary influence over his progeny completely overshadows the maternal. In brief, Abigail frequently expresses concern over becoming a murderer like her father, fearing the mix of genetics and nurture that seem to have made Will into the image of his own father. What’s more, the show develops its paternal motif even further when Will subconsciously (and, in some ways, involuntarily) slips into the role of Abigail’s father:

HANNIBAL
Teaching her [Abigail] how to fish. Her father taught her how to hunt.

WILL GRAHAM
That’s why I thought better of it.

HANNIBAL
Feeling paternal, Will?[iii]

So, if Hannibal has so much to do with fathers, especially throughout Season 1, then what does it have to do with mothers? To illuminate the maternal power that figuratively lurks in the show’s shadows, I turn to a somewhat dated piece of psychoanalytic literary criticism where author Alan B. Rothenberg provides a telling (if problematic) analysis of Shakespeare’s Titus.

In Rothenberg’s view, “A strong ‘pattern of the past’ underlying [Titus] seems to be the pre-Oedipal fear of being smothered, buried alive, and eaten by the breast or mouth of a cannibalistic mother.”[iv] Drawing on Freudian Oedipal theory, Rothenberg argues that Titus is a metaphoric manifestation of Shakespeare’s infantile fear that his mother, whom (according to psychoanalysis) an infant Shakespeare would have regarded as an all-powerful life-giver, will cannibalize him. I would add that this fantasied act of maternal cannibalism seems to be coded as an inverse act of childbirth – the bringing on of death via entry into the mother’s body. Of course, psychoanalytic criticism such as this is rife with Western-heteronormative biases and erroneous claims about authorial intention. However, Rothenberg’s observations offer a compelling interpretation as to why Tamora has so often been regarded as the play’s central, most terrifying monster (whether she truly deserves this title or not).  I’d like to suggest that Rothenberg’s essay can also shed some light on the comparatively shrouded role played by maternal powers in Hannibal.

In Titus, the central antagonism exists between the Romans, that is Titus and his fellow Andronici, and the Goths, of whom Tamora is the queen. Throughout the play, the Andronici and Goths exchange blows. The Andronici incite this gory back-and-forth by sacrificing one of Tamora’s sons. In retaliation, Tamora encourages her remaining sons, Chiron and Demetrius, to rape and mutilate Titus’s daughter – “Rome’s rich ornament” (1.1.52)[v] – Lavinia. As Lavinia begs to be spared, Shakespeare engages his characters in an argument about nature versus nurture, ending with the dreadful revelation that Chiron and Demetrius are just like their mother:

LAVINIA
When did the tiger’s young ones teach the dam?
O, do not learn her wrath; she taught it thee.
The milk thou suck’st from her did turn to marble.
Even at thy teat thou hadst thy tyranny.
Yet every mother breeds not sons alike.
Do thou entreat her show a woman’s pity.

CHIRON
What, wouldst thou have me prove myself a bastard? (2.3.142-8)

Despite Lavinia’s hopeful appeal to nurture (“O, do not learn [your mother’s] wrath; she taught it thee”), Chiron’s succinct response implies that to violate Lavinia is to prove his hereditary linkage to Tamora. Shortly thereafter, Tamora appeals to a similar logic when she goads her sons to “use [Lavinia] as you will; / The worse to her, the better loved of me” (2.3.161-7). In other words, Tamora asserts that the more violent her sons’ behavior is, the greater her maternal love for them will be. This is the key threat that Tamora poses in the early modern imaginary – a loose, volatile woman by (prude) early modern British standards, she threatens to propagate children in her corrupted image who then stand to infiltrate and debase the purity of the Roman (read British) polis.

In Hannibal, Abigail may fear her father’s influence, but I think that she and other characters ultimately face a more dangerous threat, namely Dr. Lecter’s “maternal” power to mold people’s behavior. Just as Tamora rears her sons to emulate her, Dr. Lecter psychically drives those around him – encouraging his clients to commit murder (and in one case, suicide), hypnotizing Will into (briefly) thinking he is a killer, and much more. Of course, Dr. Lecter also engages in just the sort of pre-Oedipal maternal monstrosity with which Rothenberg is concerned: cannibalism and, thus, anti-birth.

In Titus, Tamora famously eats pies in which her children Chiron and Demetrius are baked, though, as Titus’s gloating indicates, she does not do so by choice:

TITUS
Why, there they are, both bakèd in this pie,
Whereof their mother daintily hath fed,
Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred.
’Tis true, ’tis true! Witness my knife’s sharp point.
He stabs the Empress. (5.3.61-4)

Here, Titus forces Tamora to eat her sons, making her, in his own words, “Like to the earth swallow her own increase” (5.2.195). Finally, he stabs her, heaping injury upon the ultimate insult. I interpret this moment as, first, Titus’s oral rape of Tamora followed by his phallic-coded penetration into her body – in all, a double assault. Circling back to Hannibal, this moment in the play complicates the relationship between Tamora and Dr. Lecter. Whereas Tamora unknowingly “swallow[s] her own increase,” Dr. Lecter systematically consumes those around him whom he deems “rude.”[vi] Tamora is orally violated; Lecter has a cannibalizing philosophy. But despite these differences, both characters either willingly or forcedly come to embody a pre-Oedipal maternal monster. Not only do they “rear” and thus mold the behavior of their literal and metaphoric kin, but they also threaten and, in some cases, enact the consumption of those very kin.

Much like Titus’s Romans and Goths, Dr. Lecter and Will are Hannibal’s central adversaries. Yet, despite the show’s superficial paternal motif, analyzing it alongside Titus leads me to believe that Dr. Lecter does not become Will’s father or lover but his mother, and a pre-Oedipal monster-mother at that. As mentioned above, Dr. Lecter psychically drives Will at the same time that he offers him emotional guidance, albeit guidance that is rooted in an unequal blend of deception and affection. Maternal ambivalence, anyone? Much like Titus, I find that Hannibal (or what I’ve watched of it, anyway) engages in a thought project about identity. Among many questions, it asks, “Who are we, and how much of our identity is under our control?” Further, “Where bonds and family ties are concerned, how free are we to engage in or break free of them?” And, of course, “What is the horrific capacity of one who can consume the very being(s) that they have birthed, reared, and loved?”

Jack Crawford:
What kind of victim forgives the killer at the moment of death?

Will Graham:
A mother.[vii]

[i] “Sorbet.” Hannibal, created by Bryan Fuller, season 1, episode 7, Sony Pictures Television, 2013.

[ii] “Oeuf.” Hannibal, created by Bryan Fuller, season 1, episode 4, Sony Pictures Television, 2013.

[iii] “Oeuf.”

[iv] Rothenberg, Alan B. “Infantile Fantasies in Shakespearean Metaphor: I. The Fear of Being Smothered.” The Psychoanalytic Review, vol. 60, no. 2, 1973, pp. 205-22.

[v] Shakespeare, William. Titus Andronicus from The Folger Shakespeare. Ed. Barbara Mowat and Paul Werstine. Folger Shakespeare Library, October 1, 2021. https://shakespeare.folger.edu/shakespeares-works/titus-andronicus/

[vi] “Tome-wan.” Hannibal, created by Bryan Fuller, season 2, episode 12, Sony Pictures Television, 2014.

[vii] “Oeuf.”

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